


The Long Road to Reconciliation

by Guede



Series: Theory [12]
Category: Hornblower (TV), King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Baking, Cooking, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Families of Choice, Getting to Know Each Other, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Moving In Together, Moving On, Multi, Polyamory, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28494969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: Lancelot has family problems.
Relationships: Arthur Castus/Guinevere/Lancelot, Galahad (King Arthur 2004)/Mariette (Hornblower), Gawain/Tristan (King Arthur 2004)
Series: Theory [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058675
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Notification

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2006.

It started out as an ordinary enough day, Guinevere supposed. Lancelot snored till the last possible moment, yet managed to steal into the bathroom first, but that had allowed her to claim the first pot of coffee. Breakfast had seen enough sniping to spur Arthur into a rare exasperated reprimand, but he’d relaxed enough by the time they all were walking out the door to give Guinevere a long goodbye kiss in front of the neighborhood newspaper delivery boy. Work was both engaging and frustrating: Isolde had just broken up with her boyfriend and irritated the whole office by desperately flirting with every male in sight, Pellew popped in to demand progress reports, Lancelot snitched Guinevere’s files and she snitched his.

Absolutely nothing to signal that something was wrong. In fact, Guinevere didn’t even notice any difference till at least an hour afterward due to being in a long meeting. By the time she’d gotten out and went to Lancelot’s office for a word, he’d already left.

She stood in the doorway for a few moments, taking in the scene. Cup of espresso was full and sitting by the computer, not centered on its coaster so it looked as if Lancelot had casually put it down. It wasn’t steaming anymore so it’d been sitting there for a good while. The rest of Lancelot’s desk was in its usual state of teetering chaos, but his computer had been completely shut down: he only did that if he was going out of the building. His coat was gone but his briefcase was still by the desk, and most tellingly, he’d actually left a note posted to the side of his printer.

_Went downtown—personal matter. Back in two hours at latest. Route emergency calls to cell phone_ \--he’d scribbled the number here-- _otherwise see Guin._

Well, wasn’t that nice, was the first thought Guinevere had. Then she frowned and walked further into the office to pull the note off the printer. Lancelot did take the _spirit_ of his job seriously, beneath all his posturing, but he had a pathologically cavalier attitude towards the letter of it. He didn’t leave notes about work-related business. If they were lucky, he left a vague voicemail, followed several hours later by spectacular messes that were only salvageable due to the miraculous victory he’d pulled out of it.

She lowered the scrap of paper and took a second survey of the desk. The desk phone caught her eye because the light signaling that Lancelot had stored messages was on; Guinevere picked up the earpiece and cradled it while she punched in his code. Technically no one was supposed to have anyone else’s, but she and Lancelot had privately agreed to share since a message from Arthur had an equal chance of showing up on either.

The machine actually had several messages, so Lancelot must have been in the middle of catching up. He had been pulling fieldwork for the past few days…but so far, none of them were unusual. The first two were calls from the labs saying that analyses were ready, the third was one from a contact in Queens, and the fourth…

…the fourth might be crisis-worthy, but wasn’t unusual. It was from the city morgue, and it merely informed Lancelot that a body had come into the morgue and would he come down because he might be needed to identify it. Gruesome and an unpleasant thing to have in the morning, but it was an occasional part of their work. Unless…Guinevere went back to her office, still holding onto the note.

Thirty minutes later, she’d more or less checked on all their field agents, major contacts and targets and none of them was dead or was unreasonably unaccounted for. She had about ten for whom she couldn’t get a current location, but right now that would fit into their schedule.

“Guinevere?” Pellew knocked on her doorframe. “I can’t seem to find Lancelot.”

“Oh. Oh, well, he’s out.” She got up from behind her desk and showed him the note.

The way Pellew squinted and frowned at it told her he had no idea either. He plucked it from her hand and read it another time, then gave it back to her. “Well, when he gets back, could you remind him that his report on the diamond-smuggling ring’s due in today? Also, I’d like it early if possible, as the local law’s getting a bit impatient with our pace and needs some reassuring that they don’t have to ‘step in.’”

“I’d be glad to, sir,” Guinevere said. And she would, because if the NYPD or U. S. Customs butted in now, they’d catch the men on the ground but the men pulling the strings would go free _again_. After so many months of patiently setting up a trap big enough for a tiger, she was in no mood to settle for a bunch of rabbits.

She’d give Lancelot…another forty minutes, she decided. It’d been about an hour and twenty already, and if he wasn’t back within the two hours he’d specified, she’d call.

Thirty-five minutes later, Lancelot appeared in the doorway to Guinevere’s office. “Guin—has Pellew been by?”

“Yes, and he wants his report.” She finished typing her entry before she glanced up. Then she took a good second look, leaning slowly back in her chair. “You could use some freshening up first, though. What on earth have you been doing?”

Lancelot’s tie was hanging half-done, which was normal for him. But his hair was a wreck, and not the artful sort of wreck into which he spent nearly a quarter hour every morning making it. It looked as if he’d been attacked by a pigeon who’d mistaken it for a good nesting site. The skin under his eyes was dark and puffy, and that wasn’t from lack of sleep because he’d slept quite soundly all sprawled over Arthur and her last night.

“I…nothing, just a mess that cropped up. It’s been taken care of—did Pellew say anything else?” He absently ruffled his hair as he spoke, which made matters up there worse. His eyes kept shifting around and he sounded about as interested in her reply as he was in cleaning the bathroom. “Do we have any important meetings this afternoon?”

“No, and no, but—” Guinevere started to rise, but by the time she got around her desk, Lancelot had retreated to his office and had shut the door. She thought about knocking, but she had her own share of work to finish up and in the end, she decided she’d catch him when he came out for lunch, which was only twenty minutes away.

Lancelot, however, apparently ate lunch in his office. If they weren’t going to meet Arthur somewhere, he usually ended up polishing off his dessert while sitting on the corner of Guinevere’s desk and going on about his ideas for their investigations. Odd.

In fact, Guinevere didn’t see him till two in the afternoon; she was in the middle of conferring with Pellew over details of her report when a door suddenly banged open.

Every head in the office turned towards Lancelot, who’d just emerged with coat and briefcase in hand. He flinched back, looking defensive, but a moment later he’d stiffened with chin high and was stalking towards Guinevere and Pellew.

“Sir, I need the rest of the day off, plus the next two days,” he said without preamble. He shifted his briefcase up so Guinevere could see the thick stack of folders he was holding against its side. Lancelot separated out several and handed them over to a startled Pellew. “I’m sorry, I know we’re entering a delicate stage, but I’ve done all my paperwork for the days I’ll miss. The first folder there’s got my recommendation for who should handle my fieldwork; I imagine Guin’ll have plenty of input there, too.”

“This is…very sudden,” Pellew stalled.

Guinevere would’ve added her own comment, but Lancelot handed her the rest of the folders before she could. “I know, sir, and I apologize,” he said to Pellew. “But a personal matter’s come up and—” he shot a strange look to Guinevere, then leaned forward and quickly whispered something to Pellew. “Once things are settled, I’ll work the weekend to make up for it.”

“I see.” The confusion in Pellew’s face cleared up and was replaced by…sympathy? No, it was more heartfelt than that. If Lancelot hadn’t been standing an awkward four feet away, Guinevere had the impression that Pellew would have tried to pat Lancelot on the shoulder. “Well, of course you’ll need a few days off. Go on ahead. I’ll clear things with payroll and so forth for you.”

Lancelot grimaced a smile, but his discomfort didn’t seem to be coming from mockery or anything like that. “Thank you, sir.”

He turned to go. After giving a quick nod to Pellew, Guinevere went after him and caught up with Lancelot at the elevator. “What’s going on? You’re just haring off?”

“No, I’ve got a problem,” Lancelot snapped. He raised his hand to push at his hair and nearly got a faceful of coat before he remembered his hand was full. He irritably jerked his arm down and jabbed at the elevator button again. “I just need to be out for a while—sorry to put you out, Guin, but I’ve got to. Tell Arthur, would you?”

“Tell him what? Are you even coming home tonight? Are you leaving town—” The elevator doors hadn’t opened yet, but she grabbed his sleeve anyway. “Goddamn it, Lancelot. At least give me something. For Arthur’s sake—you think with how he is, he’s going to like you disappearing without an explanation?”

The side of his lip curled. “Oh, yes, throw him in.”

“Because you’re _sleeping_ with him, you thick bastard,” she hissed. She yanked at his arm so he had to half-turn to face her. “And if I’m remembering correctly, you love him.”

Lancelot winced. His eyes flared hotly and he pulled his arm from her grip as if he was going to turn around and take a swing at her, but he barely managed to control himself. “Look, it’s my family. All right? Are you happy now?”

That gave Guinevere pause, and long enough for the elevator to chime besides them. “But you don’t have any,” she said, confused.

“Exactly,” Lancelot retorted. He slipped into the elevator just as the doors were closing.

The urge to scream and kick at the stainless steel was incredible, and how Guinevere managed to fight it down was beyond her understanding. But she did it, and she kept herself in hand till she’d stormed back to her office.

She sat down in her chair. Spun around once before she pulled herself out of it so savagely that it skidded back and banged into the desk, making her keyboard rattle. Guinevere started to go back and steady it, then shook herself and continued on and out till she was in Lancelot’s office and holding his phone.

He’d deleted all his messages. That cock-brained shit…of all the times he had to have a clever moment.

Well, she could guess it was the call from the morgue, and she remembered which morgue had called. She went back to her office and thought a bit; she didn’t want to call the place herself because in order to get them to release any information to her, she’d have to identify herself as an Interpol agent. Which could cause problems later with local law-Interpol relations, and those already were a bit touchy.

Guinevere sat down and called Tristan. She’d save Arthur for after she knew what the hell was going on.

* * *

“Hello? Oh, yeah, it’s me…no, he’s here…hang on a second.” Gawain put down his sandwich, wiped off his mouth, and handed the cell-phone to Tristan. He looked a bit puzzled. “It’s Guinevere. Wants to talk to you.”

She wasn’t one of Tristan’s usual callers. He put his soda down on the table—they were eating lunch late since both of them had had to work through the normal time—and took the phone. “Hello?”

*Tristan? This is Guinevere. I need a favor—do you know anyone at the city morgue?*

So far it’d been a relatively quiet day, aside from him having to return a few calls to the Baltimore PD forensics department. They’d wanted to schedule an interview, but it was getting increasingly difficult to fit those in between his preparations to graduate. “What department?”

*I…this is awkward.* Tristan had the impression Guinevere was dropping her head into her hand. *Lancelot got a call from them earlier, asking him to come down and identify someone. I think it’s family of some kind, but he left before I could find out.*

Awkward was an understatement. Right about now, Arthur would be in the middle of his afternoon lecture. Depending on how long this conversation took, Tristan could see Gawain off to his discussion group and still make it in time to catch Arthur at the door. “His?”

*Well, that’s the problem. As far as I know, Lancelot doesn’t have any…his mother’s dead and…he’s never explicitly said so, but I always thought his father was, too.* Guinevere sighed. *If it’s the father, it’ll be tricky. He was a pretty shiftless bastard, and Lancelot’s said a few times that he’s glad he took more after his mother’s side, since he doesn’t have to see the son of a bitch in the mirror every morning.*

“So name change, different appearance. I’ll call you back in a half-hour,” Tristan said. In the corner of his eye, he could see Gawain looking curiously at him.

*Wait—listen, please don’t tell Arthur yet. Not until we know who it is. Lancelot is very…reluctant when it comes to talking about his family. I need to fill Arthur in first, otherwise it’ll all go badly.*

Tristan pursed his lips and thought it over. He could see the sense in what she was saying, but it went against the grain to keep Arthur out of the loop. Not to mention if Lancelot’s disappearance turned nasty, Arthur would do considerably more than throw a fit. It didn’t sound like that sort of situation, but grief was a funny thing and made people act oddly, as Tristan well knew. “When are you getting off work today? Or are you calling him?”

*The problem is, that flash bastard just dropped everything on me and I can’t take off right away. Arthur’s late home today, right? I have it down that he’s in a departmental meeting till six.*

“He’s coordinating who handles his classes next year, since he’s taking a sabbatical to set up his subdepartment,” Tristan said. He picked up his soda and pitched it into the trashcan, since there wouldn’t be time for him to finish it.

Gawain turned to watch the cup fall into the trash. Then he quietly started picking up their napkins and paper straw covers. Tristan reached for him, but he lightly batted Tristan’s hand away and kept on cleaning.

*All right. I should be able to get down by then. I’ll pick him up from his office.* Guinevere’s voice faded out, then back in as she switched ears. *Thanks, Tristan.*

Tristan hung up and looked at his cell for a moment, then sighed. He thumbed up his contacts list and started scrolling through it. He heard Gawain walking over to the trashcan, the rustling and splattering as the other man dealt with the remains of their lunch, and then heard Gawain coming back.

“Something up?” Gawain asked.

“Guinevere called to ask if I can find out whether Lancelot had his father die on him. They apparently weren’t on good terms. She doesn’t want me to tell Arthur.” A former labmate had ended up in the city morgue, so Tristan decided he’d try him first. If that didn’t pan out, he’d move on to his more unorthodox information sources, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t need to. “Lancelot’s gone AWOL.”

Gawain scooped up his bookbag from the floor and swung it onto his shoulder. “Okay. He’s…did he seem like the kind who’d get drunk and barcrawl, or the kind that’d go around making funeral arrangements before he blew up?”

Actually, that was a useful thought. Once Tristan knew who was in the morgue, he probably could track Lancelot down within a few hours if he didn’t go home. That would keep Arthur from going out and doing the same thing, and then there’d be a chance that they could all go home and have it out there, as opposed to on the street where things could get complicated. Clayton had been quiet lately, but that couldn’t last; Arthur also had begun discussing—obliquely—what options he and Tristan had in regards to that man.

“I think he’d make arrangements, then bar-crawl. When do you see Galahad?” Tristan said. He found the number, pressed ‘call’ and held the cell up to his ear.

“After discussion. I’ll make sure he takes Mariette out or something so they’ll be out of the way.” Gawain leaned against Tristan’s chair and checked his watch. “So are we off for tonight, or do you still want to meet up by the Conservatory?”

“I—” Tristan paused. Someone had answered the phone, but he’d stopped because Gawain had bent over to brush his lips over Tristan’s. He reached up just in time to stall the other man from leaving. “This is Tristan Cornwell,” he said to the phone. “Is Danny in?”

Whoever had answered said yeah, wait a second, and put Tristan on hold. As soon as they had, he slid his fingers deeper into Gawain’s hair, then let them flow through and out.

“No, we’re still on. But meet me at my apartment,” Tristan said.

“Okay.” Gawain’s stubbly cheek rasped over Tristan’s. Then he leaned back and reshouldered his bag. He turned back once to wave at Tristan as he walked away.

Danny came on the line. *Hey, man. Haven’t heard from you in ages—actually, never figured you for the casual phone-call type.*

“I’m not. Remember when I tutored you the night before the parasite exam?”

*Okay, that sounds more like you. But yeah, I do, and as long as you’re not asking me to slip you corpses, I owe you major payback for that. Shoot.*

* * *

Arthur was just wrapping up his lecture when his cell vibrated, making the side of his briefcase quiver. He quickly moved the briefcase to the floor behind the podium and nodded at the nearest of the waiting students.

It always took him a ridiculous amount of time to finish answering students’ questions at the end of class, and he often had a trail of them following him back to his office. Today was no different, and so he didn’t manage to check his phone till nearly a half-hour after the call.

The ID said Lancelot’s cell, but Lancelot hadn’t left any messages. A quick check said he hadn’t sent any emails either, which was odd; usually he delighted in cramming up Arthur’s voicemail and then making Arthur blush at his inbox. Then again, he might have been in a hurry. Arthur shrugged, made a note to ask about it at dinner, and put it out of his head.

He was in a meeting with Kitty when his phone went off again. They were fairly deep into discussion, so Arthur reached into his pocket and set his cell on ‘silent’ without checking to see who it was. He did that when he was walking back to his office, and was surprised to see Lancelot’s number pop up again without any accompanying message.

It was only three-thirty, but he had a long meeting with Merlin later. Arthur mentally checked his schedule, made room for a fifteen-minute phone call, and shut himself in his office. Then he rung up Lancelot.

He got several rings, so Lancelot’s phone was on, but no one answered. When the voicemail message came on, Arthur sighed and wondered if he should bother Guinevere. This was odd behavior on Lancelot’s part, but it didn’t seem too serious.

_Beep._

“Lancelot,” Arthur said, startling to attention. “Hello. I’m returning your earlier calls…you didn’t leave any messages, so I assume you’re busy right now. Is everything all right? Did you need me to do something?”

He paused for a moment, trying to think of what else to say. The slight white noise on the other end made him hunch awkwardly and stare around the room, reminding him that no one was actually there and that he was being recorded, which always made him nervous.

“I’ll be home about seven,” he finally continued. “If it’s something you’d prefer to say face-to-face, I’ll be happy to talk about it then. I hope your day’s going well, and I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

At that point, he hung up and briefly considered banging himself in the forehead with the phone. It was a toss-up whether he sounded more like a stiff-necked Victorian or like a timid little girl trying to sound coy. Lancelot was going to tease him mercilessly later.

Arthur checked the time again. He pulled up Guinevere’s number and put his thumb on the ‘call’ button, but hesitated. If it really was nothing, he’d hate to disturb them. He’d also prefer to avoid giving them any more evidence of his paranoia, since they were already…well, paranoid enough over it.

He took his thumb off the button and dropped his cell back into his pocket.

* * *

Guinevere picked up her phone without looking, as she was busy trying to make sense of the spreadsheet Isolde had sent her. “Hello?”

*Tristan. I called the morgue.*

She sat up straight and pushed away from her computer to get at a pad of paper and a pen. “It’s been nearly two hours.”

*I know. I had to do some double-checking, and then I thought it might be good to try and track down Lancelot,* Tristan calmly said. He didn’t sound like he was apologizing so much as explaining basic technique to a rookie.

Well, Guinevere knew he was on that high of a level, so she let it pass for the moment. She clicked out the tip of her pen. “Did you find him?”

*Where he’s been. I’m still on-campus and he’d been moving too fast for phone calls. He’s visited a funeral parlor, the 106th Precinct--*

“Queens?” Guinevere asked, blinking. “What on earth was he doing there?”

Tristan joggled the phone. In the background, happy girlish chatter faded in and out, which told her he was walking outside. *Also stopped by the local Anglican church. That was about ten minutes ago, and I don’t know where he is right now.*

“Damn.” Both because that more or less confirmed Guinevere’s guess and because that meant they couldn’t knock Lancelot over the head, toss him into a taxi and bring him home before he did anything stupid. Guinevere pinched the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could scribble notes and check out the rest of her day’s schedule at the same time. “All right, what about the morgue?”

*Last night an apartment building landlord in Queens called them, said one of his residents had been found dead in bed. Man signed his lease as a Mike Dowdy, but IDs found on him were for a Michael Brady, a Jack London and a Ben Lake. He was carrying an old phone number for Lancelot, plus a few photos, so that’s why they called him.*

Guinevere let out her breath slowly and rubbed at her nose. “Ben Lake.”

*Minor figure in London organized crime, circa 1980s, according to his rap sheet. His last name sounds like an Anglicization.*

“It is an Anglicization. Lancelot changed it back to the original French version: DuLac. That would be his father…but he was reported as killed in 1995, right after he’d gotten out of jail. Of course, that was based on witness testimony and no actual body, but still…all right. Thanks, Tristan,” Guinevere said. She was going to have some words with Lancelot, but she hardly knew where to begin. Had he known his father had been alive?

He’d certainly never acted like it, and had kept his distance from any part of his childhood to the point of refusing assignments that’d take him back to London. As low an opinion as Guinevere could have of him, she didn’t think he was a secret spy for the British gangland scene. She could, however, see him helping his father hide out one last time and then walking out on the bastard. Family ties were peculiar like that. Though of course she knew barely anything of Lancelot’s…

Tristan hadn’t hung up yet. *I probably see Arthur before you do.*

“It’s very kind of you to offer, but I’d like to tell him myself,” Guinevere immediately said. She clicked her pen shut and dropped it back in its cup, then started pulling work to take home. It wasn’t even five, and Arthur would be in his meeting, but she still thought she’d best get out of the office. At the very least, she needed to plan out what to say and how to say it.

*Are you sure he hasn’t called Arthur?*

Guinevere paused, then shook her head. “No, that’s not Lancelot’s style. He’ll have retraced his father’s steps for the past few days, made arrangements, and then sacked down somewhere with a nice big bottle of Scotch. Speaking of, do you know what Ben Lake was doing here?”

*Nothing out of the ordinary. Preliminary coroner’s report has it ruled as death due to alcohol-related liver damage. Natural causes, basically. Nothing’s been going on in that area, either.*

“Thank you, Tristan,” Guinevere repeated. She hung up before he could ask about Arthur again.

She took out her cell phone and went down her speed-dial till she found Arthur’s number. Then she stared at it. She didn’t think Tristan was going to let that go, but on the other hand, she didn’t think this sort of thing should be done over the phone. Or possibly she was stalling because she really did not know a good deal about Lancelot’s familial background and Arthur would have questions that she wouldn’t be able to answer. And she hated not being able to answer questions.

Of course, she also hated being pre-empted. Guinevere pressed the ‘call’ button.

A few minutes, she was irritably glaring at the phone and wondering whether the five seconds of satisfaction would be worth the paperwork necessary for getting a replacement phone. She could always ask Lancelot how he managed—except he wasn’t _in_ , and that was the source of the whole problem.

She turned off the phone and did about fifteen minutes of work. Then she tried again, but only got the same busy signal. Guinevere tried his office phone: he wasn’t in, but then, he should have just walked into his meeting with the Dean. She called Vanora, who confirmed that and took Guinevere’s message about picking up Arthur, but couldn’t give any advice about contacting Arthur sooner.

Finally Guinevere tried Lancelot’s phone on the off-chance that that might go through, but he had it turned off. She heard a grating sound, and only several seconds later did she realize that she was grinding her teeth.

She stopped and turned back to her computer. There was another fifteen minutes till the official end of the workday, and she was a professional. Work had to be done despite personal difficulties and so forth…if the traffic kept her from getting to Avalon’s campus in less than thirty minutes, she might have to commandeer something. Helicopters, perhaps. God knew those damned traffic choppers were always buzzing overhead.

Guinevere reached for her cell and tried Arthur again. Nothing.

She leaned forward to rest her forehead against her computer screen. “Damn it.”

* * *

The third call came while Arthur was just finalizing things with Merlin, its ring startling him so much that he knocked a folder off the desk. He dove for it while also trying to flip his phone out of his pocket. “Sorry about that, I—”

A great knob of heart of oak shot out and thumped on the desk, pinning down the folder’s corner just before it would have slid completely off. Merlin pushed it back on and waved Arthur off. “Take the call, take the call. I’ve got to sign all this anyway.”

“Thanks,” Arthur said, flicking up the top of the cell. He saw Lancelot’s number and immediately pushed ‘answer,’ putting the phone up to his ear with a haste he hoped wasn’t too apparent. “Lancelot?”

Whoever was on the other end of the line was holding their breath. Arthur had counted to fifteen before he heard anything, and then it was a very low, very harsh chuckle. Then the line went dead.

“Arthur?” When Arthur looked up, Merlin was watching him with a curiously concerned expression. The other man normally let his walking stick lean against the side of his desk, but he was still holding it in his hands parallel to the desk, as if he were…

It was a shame there was no mirror behind Merlin, or else Arthur would’ve caught on sooner. He immediately smoothed out his face and mustered up a weak smile. “Sorry about that. Now, what did we have left…right.”

They got through the remaining paperwork in less than half the time for which they’d scheduled. Once or twice Merlin raised his hand and began to say something, but he always let the matter go when Arthur paused. He obviously thought Arthur’s briskness was unusual, but apparently he didn’t feel like pressing the matter. Hopefully he was chalking it up to a desire to wrap up this meeting early so they could both go home.

Arthur had left some of his things in his office, so he made a quick stop there to pick them up. No one was in the front when he went in, but as he was coming out, Vanora walked in from the hallway. She took in a breath and stepped forward, but he quickly swerved around her and kept going. “Sorry, but I’m running very late, Vanora. Can you forward the message to my home machine?”

She called after him. Then he heard her heels clattering in the hall, but fortunately for him, a group of grad students came barreling out of a door between him and Vanora. That bought him enough time to get out and duck into one of the lesser-used trails on campus.

Once he’d gotten to a fairly isolated area, he stopped and propped up his briefcase on a squat concrete post. He popped it open, retrieved a few accessories for his cell, and plugged them in. Then he called Lancelot.

Lancelot briefly clicked the phone on, but ended the call before Arthur could say a word. He also must have turned off the cell afterward because Arthur couldn’t get a direct fix on his position, but Arthur had a neighborhood. He converted his phone back to an ordinary cell, shut his briefcase, and walked to where he could hail a cab. When he’d gotten one, he slid into the backseat and called Tristan.

Tristan’s number was busy. Arthur called Guinevere, and her number was also busy. He eyed his phone for a second. Then he temporarily gave up on them and turned off his phone before sliding it into his briefcase. He fumbled around till his fingers grazed the case of his other phone, pulled that out and started calling around to make sure nothing from his past had popped out to muddy things. By the time he was done with that, they’d arrived.

After paying the driver, Arthur headed for the nearest main road, as the side-streets were far too narrow to accommodate Lancelot’s car. The neighborhood tended towards the very low rungs of middle-class so he attracted some odd looks, but that should end up working in his favor. If he stood out, then Lancelot would be the most exciting thing to hit the place in years.

He made it all the way down the first street without spotting the car and was turning to cross over and continue down to the next major road when his eye caught something. He turned back around to look at a small Irish-style pub behind and slightly to his right. It was just beginning to fill up with people, and through its large glass windows he could see tall laughing girls with towels tucked into their aprons moving easily between the tables. It looked like a popular local spot.

Nothing relevant, but Arthur looked a few moments longer out of habit. His eyes drifted towards the back, where a good-looking redhead with a sour expression was stalking down the aisle. She turned to catch one of the other waitresses by the shoulder, nodding towards a back booth. Her friend made a face, then leaned in to whisper.

Arthur hesitated a bit longer before he finally went inside. He could hear fans whining in the ceiling, but they weren’t making much headway against the thick smoke so he had to squint to see.

“Hi! How can I help you?” chirped someone. A waitress with a perky blonde ponytail and an odd habit of blinking very rapidly beamed up at Arthur. “You’re new here—I definitely would have remembered you before.”

“Ah…yes, I’m…meeting someone, so that’s all right. But thank you,” Arthur hastily said, pressing by her. He dodged another waitress carrying a full tray of frothy beer mugs, then made his way towards the figure slouched in the very last booth.

“’lo, Arthur.” Lancelot gave him a limp wave. His tie was unknotted and straggling down his shirt, which was badly wrinkled. His eyes were a little red and he had a small collection of shotglasses in front of him, plus a half-bottle of whiskey. “Guin sent you?”

Arthur put his briefcase on the seat across from Lancelot, then looked around the place again. He spotted five children below the age of ten, and at least one pregnant woman. “No, you called, and since you didn’t leave any messages, I was concerned. It’s a bit stuffy in here—do you mind if we take a walk?”

“I am _not_ ,” Lancelot said with great deliberation, “That sloshed yet, Arthur. You want me out where I won’t scare the children. You always are so concerned about their tender little minds, of course.”

The redheaded waitress Arthur had seen in the window was watching them. Actually, their corner seemed to fascinate most of the women and a few of the men in the place; he supposed it must look like a build-up to a spectacular drama. “Why would Guinevere send me?”

“Oh, because she’s worried. Worried because I told a few lies, probably—she always was a stickler for precise information. I doubt she’d appreciate the explanation that someone can be dead to you and still be walking…somewhere…” Lancelot vaguely flapped his hand around. Then he dug into his inner jacket and pulled out his wallet. He dropped some bills on the table before swaying to his feet.

Arthur did some mental estimating, then decided what Lancelot had dropped included a generous enough tip to forestall any later protests. He picked up his briefcase again and got one hand beneath Lancelot’s elbow.

The other man threw him off to lurch forward a few feet; his usual grace had been distorted by the alcohol, but enough of it was in evidence to still make him more than the usual drunkard. That worked against them here, since it only ensured that they had an avid audience all the way out the door.

Lancelot didn’t speak again till they were outside, and Arthur didn’t attempt to start a conversation or to grab hold of the other man again, though he stayed near enough to catch Lancelot should he take a serious fall. He walked slightly behind as Lancelot unsteadily led them towards his car, which was parked about a block away.

“So how was your day, Arthur?” Lancelot said as he fumbled with his keys. He dropped them twice but the first time, he caught them. 

The second time, Arthur managed to snatch them away before Lancelot could get at them. He pushed the other man aside and opened the driver’s side so he could toss his briefcase into the backseat. “It was fine. It—”

He turned around and got Lancelot by the waist just as the other man attempted to slip away. An elbow cracked Arthur on the chin and Lancelot nearly managed to drop out of Arthur’s arms, but Arthur ignored his sudden dizziness and held on. The next time Lancelot twisted, Arthur let his hands slide with it till they were under Lancelot’s arms. Then he jerked the other man completely inside.

He had to fall on his back, which wasn’t the most ideal position for keeping anyone on the street from noticing Lancelot’s flailing, but he wanted to get as much of Lancelot’s body inside as possible. The other man was cursing and snarling, but so far he wasn’t raising his voice too much; Arthur wrenched himself around and on top, then got the driver’s door shut.

“You’d make a wonderful kidnapper,” Lancelot said, breathless but not without viciousness. He stopped fighting and pushed himself to the other end of the car to sprawl much as he had been in the pub.

“I was a wonderful kidnapper, on occasion,” Arthur bit back. He sat back in the driver’s seat and put his hands on the wheel, squeezing till its leather cover squeaked. Then he sighed and looked at Lancelot again. “The door’s not locked on your side.”

Lancelot smiled without humor, and turned his profile to Arthur. “All right, fine. Let’s go somewhere you think is more _suitable_ for a discussion and have it out, since you’re so eager.”


	2. Release

The moment she was able to, Guinevere shot out of work and down to her car. She tried calling Tristan as she was pulling into the road, but only got to him on the third try. The first two times, she hit a busy signal. “Were you calling Arthur?”

Tristan drew in a breath. *Once. His phone’s off. I didn’t have Lancelot’s number, so I called around, but I ended up with three different ones and none of them work.*

“That’d be because he’s hopeless at hanging onto a cell-phone, changes providers even quicker, and till they changed the bloody FCC regulations, he didn’t want to pay the number-retention fee. By the way, I do appreciate the trust you have in my and Arthur’s relationship,” Guinevere irritably replied. When she pulled up to the next light, she fumbled around in her purse for her earpiece and with some dexterous manipulation, got it in without knocking her bun askew or plowing into the hip-hop Caddy shaking next to her. “Wait. Arthur’s phone is off? Doesn’t he only do that if—”

*I just started on trying to find him. Called Vanora—she was trying to call you, but she said your phone was busy. She says Arthur blew out of his office fifteen minutes early and she couldn’t give him your message,* Tristan replied. He didn’t sound worried yet, but he definitely sounded like he was sitting up and paying attention instead of just being vaguely amused.

Guinevere silently cursed. Then she vocally cursed as horns blared behind her; she glanced up to see the light a brilliant green that reminded her of the eyes of one of the male idiots in her life, then floored the accelerator.

Of course, she had to switch her foot to the brake a few seconds later—this was rush-hour in New York, after all—but the brief burst of speed made her feel a little better. Occasionally she could understand why Lancelot was so laissez-faire when it came to speed limits. “Well, I’m stopping home on the off-chance that Arthur went there. He might have left a note.”

*He might have.* The tone of Tristan’s voice said he wasn’t sure how probable that was. On the one hand, Arthur was scrupulous to the point of insanity when it came to little matters of etiquette and consideration like that. On the other, when he turned unpredictable, he was _damned_ unpredictable. Which included his timing. *I’ll call you back if I get anything.*

“Wait! What about—goddamn it!” She nearly missed the turn and had to slew her car about so hard that she smelled burning rubber. The car tilted, then banged back onto all four wheels, which left Guinevere gritting her teeth.

Tristan had hung up on her. Her sense of order was inanely demanding that she schedule an immediate tire rotation. She had no idea where Arthur was or what he was doing, and she had an all-too-good of an idea as to what Lancelot was doing.

Whenever she finally caught up to that flash bastard, Lancelot had better be bawling his eyes out, Guinevere decided. Otherwise she couldn’t be held responsible for any missing body parts of his afterward, dead father or no dead father.

* * *

Arthur drove them to Central Park. They were less than an hour from the time when vehicular traffic was banned in the park, so he ended up leaving the car about a block away and dragging a sullen, silent Lancelot into it. Given what Arthur did know, he thought it was best to head off the commonly-frequented paths.

“See you’re being careful as always,” Lancelot drawled. His walking was a little less cock-eyed and if someone wasn’t looking closely, he might merely appear to have an extravagant manner of strolling, but a glance into his eyes would swiftly correct that misapprehension. From time to time, he’d duck his head away from Arthur, who would pretend he didn’t see Lancelot wiping savagely at his cheeks. “Setting’s good whether you’re going to have me up against a tree or kill me.”

The sunset sky was beautiful today, all tones of clear purples and pinks and yellows. “Why were you calling me?” Arthur asked.

They stopped between a pair of trees and some bushes, which though leafless effectively screened them from the rest of the world. Lancelot shoved his hands into his pockets and tipped his head back, but he obviously didn’t mean to enjoy the pretty dusk. “What, can’t I call you?”

“You usually leave a message. And answer when I pick up.” Arthur slipped his hand into his own trouser-pocket and contemplated trying to sneak a call to Guinevere or Tristan. Now that he was thinking a bit more broadly, he realized that was what he should have done first. He’d promised himself, and those he loved, that he’d try to break his habit of going off without…never mind. This wasn’t the time. “Has something happened?”

“We’re in New York, Arthur. Everything’s happening,” Lancelot dryly replied. He continued staring at the sky.

After some thought, Arthur let the other man be and stood where he was. He drifted from the situation enough so that he could occupy his mind and nervous energy with thinking about his lesson plans for next week, but not so much that he didn’t notice when Lancelot slightly dropped a shoulder.

Then the other man irritably took his hands out of his pockets and raked them through his hair. He stopped with his arms still over his head to glare at Arthur. “Would you _stop_ staring at me like that? You’re just wasting your time.”

“I don’t think I am,” Arthur mildly remarked. But he half-turned anyway and looked at the trees beside them, in order to ease Lancelot’s state of mind. A few birds were hopping about the bare branches, occasionally stopping to peck at the bark.

After another two minutes, Lancelot sighed. When Arthur looked over, the other man was rubbing the sides of his face as if trying to wake himself up, but Lancelot quickly dropped his hands. He blinked tiredly at Arthur, shoulders slumping just enough to signal his defeat. “You could’ve at least picked a spot with a bench, damn you. I’m not getting grass stains on this suit.”

A slight tang of sourness filled Arthur’s mouth, but he reminded himself that the trade-off would be worth it, if he could find out what was the matter. Besides, no matter how crushed Lancelot looked right now, he could recover from it. Arthur didn’t think so highly of himself as to believe that he could permanently damage Lancelot’s self-confidence. In fact, he doubted there was anything in the world that could. “I can see a bench from here.”

Lancelot grimaced a smile and nodded. He slowly spun on his heel and walked towards said bench. “You always have the answers, don’t you?”

“Hardly.” As Arthur walked alongside Lancelot, he shot the other man a pointed look. At first he was afraid he’d overplayed it, but Lancelot merely shrugged it off. Still, Arthur made sure to keep about a yard in between them so as not to create a sense of crowding. “If it…is any help, I’m not asking you to tell me everything. I’d just like to know enough so that I know you’ll be all right later. You extended this courtesy to me, so I’d be a—”

“My father’s dead,” Lancelot abruptly said. He flicked a challenging glance over his shoulder before flopping onto the park bench. A nearby flock of pigeons spouted a few nervous jumpers, then settled down. They edged a little towards Lancelot, cooing demandingly, but detoured after he kicked a rock at them. “About two days ago. Heart failure brought on by longstanding liver problems.”

Then he grabbed the top of the bench and swung himself around as if making room for Arthur. But Lancelot swung too far, and had to yank himself back to keep from falling off. He kept his face angled slightly downwards so the profile of his clenched jaw was clearly displayed.

He’d told Arthur previously that his father was no longer in his life, which had implied death but hadn’t necessarily meant that. Lancelot had claimed far narrower margins as edging him from lie to truth, so that couldn’t have been what was keeping him from talking to Arthur.

Since he also gave the strong impression that he would bite off Arthur’s head if sympathies were offered, Arthur cast around for a neutral reply. “He was in the city?”

“Yes. Yes, he was, and may he rot in hell for it, that fucking—” Lancelot jerked his fist to his mouth and coughed sharply into it. Then he snorted and threw himself roughly back against the bench so he could stretch out his legs. “He’s not named Benjamin DuLac, by the way. I changed my name back to the old version—my father liked the Anglicized version.”

“Ben Lake.” Arthur rounded the bench and sat down. He felt his coat take on strain and stopped to pull it out from under him, then turned about to face Lancelot.

The other man hadn’t moved and wasn’t moving, except for the slow spread of confusion and suspicion over his face. He pursed his lips, started to speak, and changed his mind about his phrasing. Then he started again. “You don’t look surprised.”

“It can be a small world sometimes…he was involved in a collaboration about fifteen years ago. That was too early for me, but not for some of the people I worked with later. They wanted to bring him in on something else, but…” Arthur trailed off. His hands were hurting and he suddenly realized he’d been squeezing his knuckles together till he could feel the cartilage shifting beneath his skin.

Lancelot didn’t have much expression in his face at first, but as he absorbed the information, his look grew harder. He straightened up, leaned back; his feet scuffed idly at the ground while his fingers tapped more and more rapidly on the planks. “Arthur. Tell me you’re saying that you’ve seen him and you—somehow—saw the resemblance.”

Well, this certainly was a plum time for the truth to out, Arthur bitterly thought. He was handling this situation so damned badly he was surprised they’d only had the one outburst of physicality. “I’ve only seen photos,” he had to admit. “But you don’t look the least bit like him. I didn’t put it together till last year after we met. I…did a check on you.”

For a long moment, Lancelot simply stared. When he finally moved, it was to slouch down till he was staring straight up at the sky. He opened and closed his mouth a few times while shaking his head in incredulity. “My God, Arthur. So should Guin even bother filling you in on her family difficulties, or have you already looked that up, too? Do you do background checks on all your prospective lovers—oh, I’m sorry. That question’s not come up in a long time. I forgot.”

Arthur held his breath till he thought he could exhale without also releasing a torrent of angry words. No matter how down Lancelot was, he never managed to lose his knack for setting off the temper of anyone near him. “I believe you and Guinevere both walked into our first meeting with a full file on me.”

“Full?” Lancelot snorted. He shoved himself up so abruptly that Arthur thought Lancelot was going to lunge at him, but instead Lancelot swayed in place, eyes blazing. “We had your goddamned school records, your employment records since your stint at the Sorbonne, and that’s it! You had to _tell_ us—”

In spite of himself, Arthur tensed. And somehow Lancelot noticed, though he was in full roar. He promptly stopped himself, then blackly laughed it off.

“You had to tell us the rest,” he finished more quietly.

“I didn’t—Lancelot. Yes, I told you. And you told me who you were, and what you were doing, but I had to know for sure. I had to know if you had connections—it’s not that I didn’t trust you, all right? I believed you when you said Interpol was going to keep me out of the Red Hound case. But people let things slip to family and friends, and back then I didn’t know you were going to move in with me!” Arthur had tried to keep his voice steady and low. He truly had, but it grew ragged and louder, and by the time he got to the end of what he had to say, he’d completely lost control of his tongue. “I didn’t—you two just showed up at my backdoor a week later. It was surprising. I hadn’t expected that.”

Lancelot looked as if he were going to come out with a matching tirade, but at the last moment he aborted it. Instead he put his arm up on the bench-top and rested his face in his hand. The anger drained out of his face and left behind a weary, ironic understanding. “I think I can see what you mean. People get comfortable around those they trust, and they let slip little hints that wouldn’t mean anything to everyday nine-to-five folk. Of course, that’s everyone else in the world.”

The first impulse Arthur had was to reach over and hit Lancelot, very sharply and very hard in the head. The second impulse he had was to get up, walk away and keep walking till he wasn’t near enough to be a disruption in the other man’s life.

Someone laughed, low and darkly. It turned out to be Lancelot, though the sound of it perfectly suited Arthur’s own mood. “Ah, God. It’s a vicious cycle, isn’t it? You want to keep up your good impression and so you don’t talk, but then it comes out and supposedly it’s all fine, it’s better to have it out. Except not really, and next time you end up hiding again.”

“Actually, I thought I warned you off me,” Arthur muttered. He laced his fingers together and pressed them against his mouth, then dropped them and put his hands on his knees in preparation for getting up. “I do that sort of thing, Lancelot. I’ll do it in the future, because due to my past I have to know what or who might be coming after me. I can’t protect Tristan and you and Guinevere, and I can’t stay alive, without doing that.”

“Wait—where are you—Arthur!” Lancelot lunged over the bench and grabbed Arthur’s arm with both hands, dragging Arthur back by sheer weight. He looked terrified.

Arthur promptly sat back down, blinking at the other man.

“I…” Lancelot ducked his head and laughed again. He cut this one short and awkwardly pulled himself over so he was leaning against Arthur’s side instead of stretched over the bench. “Idiot. I wasn’t talking about you with that last bit. I’m sorry, I know you do what you have to and I knew that before…it’s just this mess. Please don’t go. Really, I can pull myself together. Just give me a moment.”

Which Arthur thankfully did.

* * *

“Guinevere again.” After flipping the cell shut, Tristan swung his bag off the low concrete ledge on which he’d temporarily lain it and onto his shoulder. He waited for Gawain to stuff the papers he’d been grading back into his bookbag. “Arthur’s not home. He probably went after Lancelot.”

Gawain shouldered his bag, grimacing at the sudden jerk of its weight. “I thought Arthur didn’t know what was going on?”

“Lancelot probably did something. He might try to go off and be alone, but he tends to keep lashing out at people to get them to come after him.” It wasn’t the best way to get company, but at least it made it easier for Tristan to track down the man. If the situation had been reversed, then Tristan wouldn’t have been nearly so calm: when Arthur wanted isolation, he could disappear so efficiently that not even Tristan’s mother had been able to track him down.

Tristan and Gawain walked along for a little bit in silence. They passed a few students and some lingering professors, but mostly the campus was empty at this hour. After classes were over, the campus didn’t offer much competition to the attractions of the surrounding city and so most people immediately left.

“So what are you going to do?” Gawain finally asked.

He startled Tristan, who’d been busy thinking on who he could possibly call next. “Find them, make sure Arthur doesn’t need help, and then let them be. They’re not in Brooklyn, Queens or around here. I’ll try Manhattan next.”

“So tonight is off? It’s okay if it is. Really, dinner’s not a big deal, and I can catch up with you later.” Gawain adjusted the strap on his shoulder. He looked over at Tristan and his face immediately rearranged into apologetic for some reason. “You probably need to—”

“No, I wasn’t planning to go out and chase them. I should be done—”

“—because really, whatever works best for—”

“I don’t want to call off tonight. I wanted to talk you to about something.”

That came out too curt. Tristan shut his mouth and stared at Gawain, who flushed and looked away. With a half-shrug, Gawain began to repeat something deprecating it being okay if they rescheduled, but he soon stopped himself. He went another few steps before he cleared his throat and tried again, but his second explanation went as badly as the first.

“I just—you know, don’t want to inconvenience you,” Gawain finally said. He immediately moved his gaze from Tristan to the sidewalk ahead of them, but not so quickly that Tristan didn’t notice the flash of insecurity. “Wow, the trees are starting to bud already. I can’t believe that in a couple weeks, Galahad and I’ll have been here for a year.”

Galahad, Tristan reluctantly acknowledged, could on occasion come up with some good insights. “You know that job in the city forensics lab? I think I’m going to take it. As a starter.”

That brought Gawain’s head around fast, but he kept his face carefully smoothed of emotion. After a few moments, he managed to pull it into happy, which wasn’t entirely forced. “Hey, that’s great. They were the ones offering the best benefits package, weren’t they?”

“Yes.” Tristan looked at his phone again. He needed to call and see where Arthur was, if only to get that worry out of his head. With everything shifting as it was, he wanted to know that the other man, who’d been the one point of stability in his life for the last few years, was still all right. And he needed to do something about the slight tightness in Gawain’s voice, because Gawain had come to be the one point he most wanted to stay in his life.

He abruptly jerked his arm down to his side and pressed the cell into his hip; Arthur could handle himself, Tristan decided.

The sharp movement caught Gawain’s eye, and he was opening his mouth to speak when Tristan finally got out the words. “My lease is up in May. I’m not planning to renew it.”

“You’re going to move somewhere closer to downtown?” Gawain asked. He really was trying hard, and it hurt to watch it.

“It’s a long commute from here. But I can drive. I—does Galahad still need help splitting the apartment bill?” Tristan said. While he was saying it, he could hear how vague and awkward he sounded. He winced and wished he could reword what he’d said, but it was already out there.

For a moment, Gawain just blinked. Then he came to a stop so suddenly that Tristan had gone on a yard before he managed to circle back to Gawain, who now was staring at Tristan with the kind of fixation that crows trying to puzzle out a cage lock displayed. Tristan waited. He caught himself shifting uncomfortably from his left foot to his right and made himself stay on his right foot.

“Uh. This is…you know, I’m not meaning to criticize, but I kind of thought we had this discussion before. Only I was suggesting it, and you turned it down—not that that totally wasn’t your right, but…yeah.” Gawain lifted and dropped his shoulder.

“I know, but that was—not now. I…never go more than one year in the same apartment. Usually my landlords think that’s wonderful, but I don’t do it because of them.” This explanation was going to be roundabout and fragmented so Tristan desperately hoped that Gawain would be patient enough to listen and put it together. He hated to put the burden on the other man like this, but the straightforward answer simply refused to come out of his throat. “That’s what I’m used to. When I was living in the house with Arthur, I never was all that comfortable. He _owns_ it, and that’s…traceable. And other people knew where it was, and came to visit him there. He understood, and he left me alone a lot.”

A deep furrow appeared between Gawain’s brows as he pondered over what Tristan was saying. “That’s why he’s so used to you coming in through everything but the front door, huh.”

“That’s from that, yeah,” Tristan acknowledged. His hand was rubbing his cell against his leg. It went up over his pocket and when it came down, he directed it into the pocket where it’d hopefully stay still.

“So I can get that. I know guys like that—years after some gang war and they’re still afraid of what’s coming to them, always moving around. I mean. Not that you’re afraid, but it’s sort of the same. Fuck. I’m messing this up.” Shoulders hunched, Gawain jammed his hands in his jeans and stared at the ground between his feet. He glanced once at Tristan, but otherwise seemed fascinated by the concrete. “Look, I really am happy for you. And you should do whatever you want, and not worry about what I think anyway. I’ve still got a year—actually, at least two because I’ve got to get my teaching certificate—and you’ve got a profession to conquer. I’m just…oh, I’m just being stupid. I’m going to miss being able to walk over in two minutes, but hell, I can get a rid—”

Tristan listened to Gawain’s words with a growing sense of alarm, and finally he lifted his hand and cut it sharply through the air, trying to stop it. He pressed his fingers against his temple, then dropped them. “No, what I’m saying is that I used to be nervous about getting pinned down. But that doesn’t matter now—I’d like to find a place that’s halfway for both of us. I—can you move in with me?”

Gawain’s head came up so fast that Tristan was amazed the other man didn’t break vertebrae when he jerked to a stop. He stared at Tristan with eyes wide as eggs.

“Or can Galahad not afford a place on his own?” Tristan added. Monotone and defensive was how it sounded to his ear.

After opening and closing his mouth a couple times, Gawain gave himself a rough shake and looked off to the side. He grinned uncertainly and laughed in disbelief, then turned back. “I have to check with him. But you know, just hearing you _offer_ \--”

Gawain reached out, cupped Tristan’s face, and dragged them together in a heated kiss. His fingers slid into Tristan’s hair, twisting the strands around; his nails caught a few and yanked painfully at them, but Tristan noticed mostly as an afterthought because he was sliding his hands up Gawain’s wrist.

“Christ! Go home already, you two!”

They hastily jerked apart, though when Tristan saw that the speaker was just some random, amused passerby, he stopped backing away. But Gawain was so red with embarrassment that Tristan regretfully turned down the idea of continuing.

“I need about ten more minutes to make calls,” he said.

Gawain laughed again, his fingers trailing along Tristan’s jaw as he pulled them out of Tristan’s hair. “I can wait. Hell, can I wait.” Then he sobered a little. “I hope you don’t mind doing the same for me.”

“You don’t need to hope,” Tristan muttered, pulling out his phone. He glanced up at Gawain, but the other man finally seemed to understand all of it. Much less stressed, Tristan flipped open his cell and started dialing again.

* * *

After a while, Lancelot moved to lay his head on Arthur’s shoulder. He’d let go of Arthur’s arm, but the weight of him against Arthur worked just as well as a hard grip.

“He was just a right bastard. Utterly. Did everything you’d expect—cheated his friends, fucked their wives, came home sloshed to hell so he could toss my mother’s dinner on the floor…I can’t remember a time when I didn’t hate him,” he muttered to Arthur’s lapel. When he took a breath, his head slid slowly up and down Arthur’s shoulder. “I know a lot of people with that kind of father grow up to be like them anyway, but I didn’t. Never could see the fairness in how he made his living.”

“Is that why you ended up in Interpol?” It was something Arthur often had wondered about, since Lancelot had the intelligence and drive to succeed in a half-dozen or more other fields that would’ve paid him far better.

Lancelot’s eye rolled up to look sardonically at Arthur. Then he tucked in his chin so his head just teetered on the point of Arthur’s shoulder. “Figures. That was Guin’s first question when she found out. I suppose it was part of it. Think I’m nothing but a lout and a waste of air and food, but I’ll say this—when it came down to the wire, I still had a sense of morality. Though God knew where it came from…probably the same place as yours, freak of nature that you are.”

Arthur opened his mouth.

“You are a moral man, damn it. Don’t argue and bring up what you did before. I sleep with you—I know exactly how many times a night you have nightmares,” Lancelot snapped. Even drunk and emotionally devastated, his timing was impeccable.

His hand had been resting against Arthur’s thigh, knuckles turned outward to graze the trouser-cloth. They began to slide in small circles, but absentmindedly, without any of the sly meaning with which Lancelot usually imbued such gestures.

“Bloody disgusted dear old Dad—he couldn’t stand having his son looking down on him. He went on and on about how much I owed him, how no matter how far I got away from him I’d always have to remember that it was his mucking about with the gangs that brought me up with a roof over my head.” The outline of Lancelot’s sneer could be clearly felt through the fabric of Arthur’s coat and the shirt beneath it. “He never took that back. I went around—I don’t know exactly what he was doing here, but it wasn’t to make nice with me. He’d been talking to a few local streetcorner hoods…probably planning to try and drag me through his damn mud, if he meant to see me at all.”

“He…he’s been listed as dead for ten years,” Arthur hesitantly said.

Lancelot abruptly pushed himself off. He dropped his hands to hold onto the edge of the bench and rocked forward, head bowed so his expression was hidden. “He should’ve been. That car bomb damn near took out the whole city block. But he lucked out—was grabbing a pack of fags or something, and he—you know, he visited me before he skipped town and there were so many damned warrants out for him but I let him go. The bastard didn’t even say thanks.”

He laughed. It was thick and ragged, catching in his throat. He lifted his hand to rub at his eye, then angrily jerked it away.

“I don’t even know why I thought he would. He never had before. And—and ten years later, some idiotic part of me still thought one day, he’d ring me up or something and say it,” Lancelot muttered. His voice cracked a few times.

Then he fell silent. After a moment, he lifted his arms and rested his elbows on his knees. He dropped his head into his hands. Suddenly he kicked out savagely, but was hunched over again before Arthur could even sit up straight.

“Of course, that’s no longer a possibility, so perhaps I’ll finally give up on that.” The savagery of the twist Lancelot put on his last few words made Arthur look sharply at him. His shoulders hitched up, then down, while his breath rapidly grew ragged and then seemingly disappeared.

When Arthur couldn’t hear Lancelot breathing after a minute had passed, he put his hand on the other man’s shoulder and lightly shook him. Lancelot didn’t respond to that, but he struck out hard the second time Arthur shook him. He also partially turned so Arthur got a glimpse of his eyes.

Arthur dropped his hand from Lancelot’s shoulder, shook his sleeve so his coat wouldn’t get caught up around his elbow, and wrapped his arm around Lancelot. He used his free hand to intercept Lancelot’s next blow, which was the last. After that, Lancelot simply turned into Arthur’s chest and collapsed. His sobbing still couldn’t be heard, but Arthur clearly felt it. He wanted to say many, many things, but in the end, his instincts counseled silence. So he slid his arm down to Lancelot’s waist and simply supported him till he was done.

* * *

Even though Arthur wasn’t home, Guinevere didn’t go charging out again as she’d planned. She started to, but in the time it took for her to walk back to the front door, she remembered that she needed to call Vanora before the other woman called _her_ and pestered her for updates on the situation. Then she needed to toss her briefcase in her desk drawer, because she wasn’t about to take confidential information with her all over the city, and then she had to run back because while she’d checked the kitchen answering machine, Arthur also had one in his office for school-related calls and she’d forgotten to check that one.

And then Tristan called: Lancelot’s car had been spotted near Central Park, and a man fitting Arthur’s description had been seen driving it. Which settled the question of where both men were, though it didn’t in the least put Guinevere’s curiosity to rest. She had her hand on the knob of the front door almost before she’d ended the call.

There she stopped. She thought a bit, tightened her grip on the knob, and then thought some more before finally letting go of it. She desperately wanted to go out and smack Lancelot for marginalizing her so much that she didn’t get an explanation when Pellew had. And she wanted to smack Arthur for acting as if…as if…

It wasn’t really that, Guinevere knew. It probably was Arthur’s habit of working on his own when put under pressure, and it just happened that the problem this time was Lancelot. But it still did feel as if they were pretending it was only a two-person relationship, and Guinevere did have the fear that if she did go out and find them, she’d also find confirmation of that.

She went into the kitchen and she made something that required a lot of mashing garlic with knives. Guinevere wasn’t terribly aware of what she was making, but she knew it let her fall into its soothing rhythm of banging things together.

She missed the phone’s first ring, and the second one barely penetrated her consciousness, like the background whine of a fly. Mostly she thought it was annoying and why was it happening, and _then_ the rest of her brain kicked in. Bits of garlic flew all over as she whipped around and snatched it up; more garlic squished beneath her fingers as she belatedly remembered that she really should’ve wiped off her hand first. “Hello?”

*Guinevere?*

Guinevere sagged against the counter. She almost pushed at her hair before a little voice in her head screamed ‘garlic!’; anyway, no one was around so she had no reason for that nervous habit to be cropping up. “Arthur.”

*I—I supposed you’ve noticed I’m not home yet. I just wanted to call and let you know that I’m sorry, and I would have called to tell you, but I was worried about Lancelot. He was phoning and not leaving messages, so I went to look for him and…it took longer than I thought. But I didn’t want you to think we’d skipped out on you or anything like that.*

Had she been complaining? Suddenly Guinevere felt very silly, and then very annoyed at herself for that. She didn’t know how Arthur always managed to do that to her. “His father’s dead. He walked out of work and I was actually trying to find him and you so I could explain things first—he doesn’t like discussing him.”

*I noticed.* Arthur was whispering, but nevertheless managed to convey a trace of dry humor. *I suppose that was the message Vanora was trying to pass on to me, now that I’m thinking about it. Sorry about that.*

“Well, I forgot how single-minded you can get. Next time I’ll send over a rookie to stand there and hold up a sign. You always pay attention to international agents, after all,” Guinevere said, managing a small chuckle. “Do you have that bloody nuisance with you, or do I have to call in favors with the local precincts?”

A considerable pause intervened before Arthur spoke again, and when he did, his voice was oddly tight. *He’s fallen asleep on me. I thought I’d give him a few minutes before I got us out of here—we’re in Central Park, by the way.*

“I know. I mean, I…” Guinevere cursed herself for speaking too soon; Arthur would hear a lie and so now she had to say the whole truth “…asked Tristan for help.”

*I see.* It sounded like Arthur was about to add something else, but he changed his mind. *We’ll see you in about a half-hour, all right?*

Guinevere hung up with the feeling that near the end, the conversation had gone dreadfully askew. The problem was, she had no idea what that might have been no matter how much she reviewed her words. They all seemed fine to her, with the only sore spot being that Arthur might not appreciate her involving Tristan, but if that had been the case, Arthur would have said so. He was never reticent when it came to expressing his opinion on how others should be protected or kept from involvement.

So it was something about him, but Guinevere regretfully concluded that she’d have no idea till he and Lancelot came home.

She went back to whacking vegetables.

* * *

Arthur heard Guinevere working in the kitchen, but chose to haul a barely-awake Lancelot up to the bedroom before he saw her. He tipped Lancelot into the bed, and was turning to go when something caught his wrist. It comforted him somewhat to be still able to lean over, aim to hit Lancelot’s cheek and get trapped in his mouth instead when he turned his head. 

His arm went over Arthur’s neck in an attempt to pull Arthur down, but he was so exhausted that it took no effort at all to duck out from under it. But it looked like Lancelot still had something to say, so Arthur didn’t go quite yet.

“You know I’m a loudmouthed bastard, right? That did get passed along.” Lancelot slid his hand to cup Arthur’s cheek. “I was angry at my shiftless fuck of a dad, not at you for anything.”

“Are you apologizing?” Arthur asked. He ruffled Lancelot’s hair.

The other man made a face and pushed Arthur off. “Well, I wasn’t back then. I’m sobering up, you know.”

“I’d noticed. I’m going down to get dinner—did you want anything? No? All right, then go to sleep. I’ll be up later.” Arthur nuzzled Lancelot one last time before he headed downstairs.

He walked into the kitchen to find a veritable feast lying on various platters that covered the island and the wall counters. In the middle of it, Guinevere appeared to be starting on some kind of dessert batter. She looked up at his entrance and started to raise her hands, but the sticky dough clinging to them made her stop. A piece of her hair fell into her face and refused to go away no matter how much she tossed her head. “Goddamn it,” she muttered.

“I should have called earlier.” Arthur rounded the island and tucked the strands back behind her ear for her. He glanced at the phone. Then he gingerly picked it up by its antenna, frowning.

Guinevere blushed. “That’s garlic. I was going to clean that up.” She shook her head, though it was impossible to tell whether that was at Arthur or at herself, and thwacked her fist into the batter. “You should have called earlier. And I probably should have told you earlier, or at least poked Lancelot into talking. It’s not really fair, how we always want to know and never tell ourselves.”

“I don’t—”

“Of course you don’t mind and you understand perfectly, but that still doesn’t make it _right_ , Arthur. Where on earth has your keen moral sense gone?” She scooped up the whole mound of dough and dropped it back into the bowl, then went at it with both hands. “I told you Elaine was coming for Thanksgiving barely a week beforehand and you didn’t say a word. You didn’t ask me how many cousins I had, or what she was like—”

Guilt twisted in Arthur’s gut like a corkscrew. He turned around and went looking for a rag, and all the while he castigated himself for not being able to look at her. “I know how many cousins you have, Guinevere. It was a week before you and Lancelot moved in with me…I did some research. I needed to know who you two really were and if you or anyone you knew was going to pose a danger to me and Tristan…but that’s only an excuse for back then.”

Her back was to him and her head was bent so he could see the elegant curve of her neck. Her arms had stopped moving. After a moment of silence, she looked over her shoulder at him. “Are you still doing that?”

“No. But still, I’m sorry. I know that isn’t the sort of thing you trust to serve as a foundation to a relationship,” Arthur said. He dusted the phone twice with a damp paper towel before he realized he was flicking the garlic bits onto the floor. Biting back a curse, he stooped to wipe them up.

“Not a _normal_ one, no. But I could have had my fill of normal relationships and then some. If I’m here, then obviously I don’t want one.” Guinevere kneaded the dough some more before picking it out of the bowl and dropping it onto some floured, waxed paper she had next to her. She began to press it into a flat sheet with her hands. “I’d slap that into your head, but my hands are messy. God, even when he’s grieving and drunk—he was, wasn’t he?—and wandering around the city, Lancelot’s still a lucky wanker. I can’t hit him right now either.”

Arthur tossed the paper towel in the trash and returned the phone to its cradle. He stared at it a moment before he smiled and shook his head. He didn’t believe it, and he didn’t think he’d ever quite believe it, but he certainly was happy about it. Amazingly happy.

“Anyway, I’m a bit relieved, to be honest. Now I don’t have to explain about why I don’t talk to my parents much,” Guinevere muttered. She tilted her head to let Arthur nuzzle down her cheek and lifted her elbows a little so he could put his hands on her waist.

He kissed the line of her jaw and grazed a trace of sugar with his tongue, which he followed beneath her chin. “I didn’t check into it that thoroughly. I know they’re separated and stopped paying for your tuition halfway through your second year at university, but not why.”

She stiffened a little and hit the dough so hard with the heel of her hand that she made a hole through to the waxed paper. Guinevere started to fill it back in, then stopped and laughed to herself. “Damn it. So we’ll have to talk about it eventually.”

“I’d hope we could,” Arthur said, drawing back.

She glanced at him, then returned to…so she was making cut-out cookies. “Must we do it now? I’ve already had my fill of personal crises for the day and frankly, having sex and cookie dough sounds wonderful to me.”

He pressed his smile into her shoulder and moved his right hand over her belly, feeling it tense, and down the middle of her skirt. “I’m rather tired myself, I have to admit.”

“Not that tired,” Guinevere snorted. She pushed one foot back, then arched so her thigh rubbed up against Arthur’s prick. “Good. Making curly hair out of licorice for my gingerbread men is fun, but it wasn’t going to cheer me up that much.”

Arthur thought on that, then looked at her.

“It’s really remarkable how much it makes them look like him.” She rolled her eyes upwards towards their bedroom. Then she made a face. “Oh, don’t look like that. Nothing gets Lancelot out of a depression faster than getting him worked up, and he does that beautifully when you munch on one of these cookies.”

Well, he’d known what he’d been getting into when he opened the door to them. And in his case, that really had been true; in their cases, no matter how much they said otherwise, Arthur knew they hadn’t had all the information at hand at the time. That was why he always was surprised when they turned to him so readily, like now when Guinevere twisted to kiss him, and why he always cherished it so much.

She smeared cookie dough over his neck and shirt when she pulled him closer, and she started to apologize for it but he stopped her mouth. It wasn’t necessary and anyway, he didn’t want to hear it now. He wanted to slip his hands behind her and cup her buttocks so their bodies ground together, he wanted to kiss her so hard her hair would be knocked out of its loose bun by their ferocity, he wanted to slide his fingers along her flesh and feel the coarse hair turn slick and sticky in anticipation. He wanted to know he had this, somehow, even though no one in their right mind would’ve made that kind of leap of faith. He wanted to be there to catch the two that had.

Cookie dough showed up in the oddest places, squeezing between his hand and her thigh, sneaking in between their mouths, but it made him laugh instead of bringing up any thoughts of the mess they were making. And Guinevere must have been taken by the same mood, since she ripped her skirt while getting it down but didn’t even stop to curse. She just shoved at the cloth with one hand while she guided Arthur’s prick with the other. And then she was writhing and gasping and beautiful between him and the counter, and he didn’t think of much at all except how glorious it was.

“Goddamn it, I missed something good,” Lancelot sleepily muttered later, sniffing at Arthur’s hair. He still turned to fold himself around Arthur before Arthur was even all the way on the mattress.

“No, you haven’t,” Arthur said. He kissed Lancelot on the temple, then settled beneath the blankets. A good deal could be said about Lancelot, but not that. “You definitely did not.”

“Mmm.” Lancelot went back to sleep, clearly not understanding. It was fine. Arthur would be happy to explain, with demonstration, in the morning.


End file.
